Nice
by moonlighten
Summary: A meeting that changes the course of Alasdair's life, and possibly not to his advantage. (Human AU. Sequel to Drift. Very slight hint of the possibility of future Scotland/France at the end.)


"It'll do you all the world of good," Granddad's QC friend had said as he handed over the key to his apartment in Nice. "Leave all this… unpleasantness behind for a week or two."

They'd just brought the unpleasantness along with them, however, like the sunscreen and beach towels, though they've found very little use for the latter.

For the third day in a row, Alasdair is woken a little after dawn by Granddad hurling something against a wall. It's large enough to impact with a substantial thump, but whatever remains of it afterwards patters against the tiled floor of the living room in a quiet cascade; light, tinny notes punctuated by the sharper cracks of glass breaking.

Alasdair thinks it was probably Mum's camera.

Dylan stirs slightly in the bed beside him, toes digging into Alasdair's cheek as his legs unfold.

"Aly?" he says, his voice so heavy that the 'l' is almost entirely elided, making the nickname sound more like a groan.

"It's nothing, Dyl," Alasdair says, using the excuse of pushing his brother's feet away from his face to give his ankle a reassuring squeeze. "Go back to sleep."

On the floor beside the bed, Arthur slumbers on undisturbed, arms and pillow both wrapped tight around his head.

Alasdair shuts his eyes and tries to fall asleep himself as Dylan settles back down. The thin slices of light which have started to slash between the bedroom curtains are too bright, however, and the near-darkness behind his eyelids makes everything seem far too loud.

He can hear the phlegmy rattle of Dylan's allergy-thickened breath, the threat of later snoring building deep in his chest; the deep gurgle and splash of whisky being poured into a glass, and then the creak of leather upholstery as Granddad lowers his corpulent arse into an armchair with it; the small, steady tick, tick, tick of Arthur's watch, quietly sounding out the seconds as they pass.

The longer he tries to lie still, the pricklier his skin becomes, the more his limbs ache and his fingers twitch. If he was at home, he would have got up long since, walked the restlessness out of his muscles, but then manor has tens of rooms and acres of grounds. Here, in this tiny, three-bedroom flat, there'll be no such easy escape from his grandfather and his endless laments about the 'downfall' of their family.

So he silently counts up to a hundred and back down to one, then does the same in German, then French. He lists the elements of the periodic table, then number plates, phone numbers, rock types, plant phyla and animal.

It distracts him from his body's demands, and it passes the time, but it doesn't bring him any closer to sleep.

Eventually, he hears but barely really registers the quick, soft pad of Michael's little feet outside the bedroom, heading towards the bathroom. Mum's quiet, "Morning, Dad," sends him scrambling from the bed so quickly, however, that he almost tips Dylan out onto the floor. He ignores Dylan's muffled swearing – and Arthur's far louder tirade of abuse when Alasdair's foot accidentally connects with his face – in his dash for the door.

He's too late, though, to stop Granddad from shouting. His voice rushes in as Alasdair shoves the door open; more like a scream, really, unintelligible with rage.

Before Robert's disappearance and their family's sudden tumble into penury, Alasdair was certain that no matter how angry Granddad became – and he did so often; his temper's like a firework, short of fuse and explosive – he had never and would never strike Mum, but now… Now he's not so sure of that at all and he doesn't feel as though he can risk leaving Mum alone with Granddad for a moment.

He promised Mum years ago that he'd stop resorting to his fists to solve problems, and he's upheld his word faithfully ever since, but he knows that if Granddad so much as twitches his hand in Mum's direction, he'll break it without a moment's thought and never lose so much a minute of sleep over that choice afterwards.

His stockinged feet slip against the tiles in the hallway beyond his room – made slower by his haste as he struggles to keep his balance – and he skids into the living room just in time to step in front of Granddad, abruptly stopping his approach before he can get within swinging distance of Mum.

They're almost of a height now, he and Granddad, and their eyes meet practically level as Alasdair squares his shoulders and pulls himself up tall and straight. Granddad's are bloodshot, the cloudy grey-green of his irises nearly swallowed up entirely by his widely dilated pupils. Drunk again, and by Alasdair's reckoning it's not even nine o'clock yet.

Granddad's whole face is florid, ample jowls swinging as he opens his mouth on a snarl, but whatever invective he was going to let fly shrivels lifeless on his lips, leaving behind nothing but an alcohol-tinged gust of breath.

"Alasdair," he says, eyelids flicking down momentarily, slow and reptilian. "I didn't realise you were up."

Alasdair doesn't doubt that, because even now, Granddad tries to hide the very worst of his rage from his grandchildren. Not that he's particularly successful in that, though, because even when he's silent, it gathers in the air around him, as dark and portentous as a thundercloud.

"We all are," Alasdair says, his gaze never leaving Granddad's. "I thought I should start making breakfast."

Granddad backs down first – as he always has done to date, thankfully – turning unsteadily on his heel and heading back to his whisky tumbler. "Well, get on with it then," he says gruffly. "I'm not stopping you."  
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* * *

-  
The last time Alasdair visited France, on a school trip when he was twelve, they'd had fresh croissants every morning for breakfast, and warm, crisp rolls with rich butter.

Now, they have cornflakes – another transplant from home – with milk that is thin and beginning to sour; just on the verge of spoiling.

Granddad sits at the head of the table, chain smoking cigarettes instead of eating, flicking ash towards the ashtray that sits, balanced precariously, on the upper curve of his bulging stomach. He misses more often than aiming right and the majority of the ash settles in pale drifts along the creases in his shirt.

Beside him, Mum eats mechanically, chewing exactly four times before swallowing and raising the next spoonful to her mouth, as regular as an automaton. She's always been a thin wisp of a woman, with pale blonde hair and even paler skin – 'ethereal', Dylan had called her once; he'd only just learnt the word from one of his books, and moved it around his mouth slowly and carefully as though savouring the novelty of its taste – but she looks even more ghost-like now. Her complexion is only half a shade darker than her flimsy white sundress, and what little excess flesh she did have has melted away, revealing the stark outlines of her bones.

No-one seems willing to speak except for Dylan, who prattles on and endlessly on about some documentary he'd seen a few weeks back about the Inca pyramids in Peru. Only Arthur seems to be paying him any attention, eyes flitting towards him from time to time whenever they're not diligently fixed on his own bowl.

Caitlin is nowhere to be seen, somehow having managed to slip out unnoticed by anyone. She'll no doubt be gone for the rest of the day, because she's far more sensible than the rest of them.

For his own part, Alasdair watches Granddad, wary for any small change in his demeanour. Granddad's eyes are hooded, his brow fixed into a scowl, but the rest of his expression and his slumped posture seem placid; almost empty.

Alasdair has, unfortunately, inherited much of his Granddad's anger along with his large frame. He can feel it often, pressing solid and scalding at the inside of his skull and the back of his throat, but he's learning, slowly but surely, to choke it back, grind it down before it can burst free at its full strength. He doesn't want to grow up to be the sort of man that has his family cowering around him like frightened mice without even saying a word.  
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* * *

-  
As they're cleaning away the breakfast things, Granddad announces that he needs to get some fresh air.

Alasdair has seen the empty bottle and boxes in the kitchen bin, and thinks it's infinitely more likely that Granddad needs to replenish his supplies of whisky and cigarettes. Whatever his reasons, it's a relief when the flat's front door swings shut behind him – the only respite they've had from him since they arrived – and the air suddenly seems to lighten and clear, as though a violent storm has just passed.

As they have done every other morning in Nice, Dylan takes himself off out to the balcony, a book tucked under his arm – 'The Sorrows of Young Werther', Alasdair notes, meaning that the strain showing around his brother's eyes is far more truthful than the faint smile that never fades from his lips – and Arthur retreats to their shared bedroom. He insists he's reading for pleasure himself, and simply trying to stay cool by not joining Dylan outside, but Alasdair's seen the books he's brought with him, and each one of them is for school. He suspects that Arthur hasn't been reassured by Mum's insistence that they'll still be able to attend King's next term – their trust funds are still safe, after all, even if the rest of their money was not – and is studying as hard as he can to ensure his marks stay high enough that he doesn't risk losing his scholarship.

Mum unpacks Michael's crayons and paper for the first time, spreading them out across the dining room table along with a vast array of other craft supplies. Michael seems happy to see them emerge at last, though it's quite difficult to tell for sure. He certainly sits down quickly enough, but he doesn't smile. He hasn't really smiled since his thieving bastard of a father disappeared, and has spoken even less frequently than that.

Alasdair feels superfluous suddenly, and unsure what to do with himself. His thick fingers and heavy hands are never much help with Michael's art projects – he always manages to glue more things to himself than the paper – and Arthur wouldn't appreciate his company any more than he'd appreciate Arthur's.

As per usual, he eventually finds himself gravitating towards Dylan.  
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* * *

-  
After so long cooped up in the stuffy flat, hemmed in by its narrow walls and Granddad's fury, it comes as an odd sort of surprise to rediscover that there's still a whole world outside it.

The sky and sea are the same bright, unsullied blue and seem to form a clean arc around the apartment building, broken only by a thin strip of beach at the water's edge and then the road beside, mostly hidden from Alasdair's current vantage point, save for the still-clear sound of the cars travelling along it.

Dylan is sitting on one of the two wooden loungers set out on the balcony, his book balanced in the dip between his crossed legs. Even though it's open, however, he's not reading. His head's turned away from Alasdair and towards the balcony of the flat next to theirs.

The inhabitant of which, Alasdair notices as he follows the direction of his brother's gaze, is also sitting on a lounger, though perched on its edge with their back towards Dylan. As he watches, they pull the tie out of their long hair and then comb it through with their fingers until it falls in soft, golden waves against their shoulders.

Alasdair frowns, and jabs his big toe into the boniest part of Dylan's hip (necessitating a precision strike, as the spots on his brother's body that aren't amply cushioned against such attacks are very small indeed). "Stop spying, Dyl," he hisses.

Dylan startles so violently that the book is flung from his lap, and the lounger almost overturns as he flings his weight backwards. His face, when he eventually tilts it up towards Alasdair, is bright red, his eyes wide and panicked. The attempts to justify himself begin immediately, but each one just disintegrates into stammering and useless broken syllables: "I was just… I was just…"

"Spying on some poor girl whilst she's sunbathing, hoping she'll take her top off?" Alasdair finishes for him, shaking his head with mock sorrow. "And I thought you kept disappearing straight after breakfast just because you were desperate to start reading. You should be ashamed of yourself."

Dylan's mouth opens and closes silently, fish-like, seemingly unable to speak until the girl on the other balcony stands and starts turning towards theirs. Then, he grabs hold of a handful of the material of Alasdair's shirt, pressing his knuckles against Alasdair's stomach as though he might be trying to push him away, although, if he is, it's a weak effort.

"It's not…" The panic in Dylan's expression increases along with the pitch of his voice, finally breaking into a whisper as he wheezes out, "It's not a girl, Aly."

"Oh." Alasdair can feel his own cheeks start to flush a little, too. "Right." It's not exactly a surprise, he's seen the way that Dylan stares at Roberts – who might only have enough brains to fill an eggcup and have a nasty streak a mile wide, but, admittedly, does look like some sort of proto-underwear model – after their rugby games, but: "You were lucky it was me and not Granddad that caught you perving," he says, nudging his brother's shoulder. "You really need to learn a bit of subtlety."

He then proves himself absolutely incapable of following his own advice when he looks across to the other balcony and sees that the blond-haired boy is now standing at its railings almost close enough to touch.

It's hard to remember much of anything, though, the moment he smiles at them in greeting.  
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* * *

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Sequel: Memory 


End file.
